Nae Mair Kuryakin!
by girl in the glen
Summary: In honor of Robert Burns Night, written for Short Affair in Section VII, on Live Journal.


Nae Mair Kuryakin!

 _The women chatting by the elevator spoke quietly, not wanting to be overheard. UNCLE HQ was not the ideal spot for exchanging gossipy things, you never knew who might be listening. Still, the intrigue surrounding the object of their conversation trumped caution._

 _"I heard the two of them arguing, and Illya was livid, or at least it sounded that way." Darlene liked the Russian, and immediately took his side in whatever the disagreement might be._

 _"I'm sure Napoleon did something to upset him, he's very sensitive you know." The other woman, Estelle from communications, scoffed at the idea. She'd had a crush on Solo since the first moment she saw him sauntering down the hallway. One of these days he'd ask her out, she just knew it._

 _"Mr. Solo is the soul of compassion, I'm sure his hot-headed partner is in the wrong. Just wait and see."_

 _The elevator door chimed, causing the two to scuttle away and abandon their conversation until a later time._

When the doors opened it was none other than the subjects of the conversation from moments before. Each man had a stern expression on his face, but only one of them was dressed in full Scottish regalia. The **rift** between them seemed not yet mended if one were to judge by their expressions.

As Napoleon Solo exited the elevator he was aware of blue eyes attempting to bore a hole in his skull. Illya Kuryakin had been assigned to infiltrate a brotherhood of sorts, a North American group claiming ties to Scotland with designs on overthrowing the present government and reclaiming lands and titles they believed belonged to them. A meeting would be held this very day, and each man would attend in full dress of his respective clan's tartan. Sending in Illya had been a collaborative decision between Napoleon and their boss, Alexander Waverly. It seemed obvious that he was best suited for it; his accent and European education made him well suited to usurp a position of leadership within this group. He certainly had a penchant for preaching revolutionary ideals.

"I do not know why you thought it necessary to parade me through the halls of UNCLE Headquarters dressed like this. I am now fodder for every sort of gossip and speculation, and…"

"Illya, will you please be quiet. Mr. Waverly has his reasons and if I were you…"

"I you were me then you'd be dressed in a kilt and sash, looking all the world like Allen Breck Stewart." Napoleon stopped and turned to face his partner.

"Who? See, that's why you're playing this part, you know the characters better."

Two hours later found the agents having been fully briefed by their chief, with Illya ready to enter into the assembly of Scots whose roots were pulling them back to their homeland. Some of the Americans, having never lived in Scotland, found the idea of exchanging life as they knew it for one with a promised **silver** lining too intoxicating, to fantastic to even imagine. Surely there was some truth to the claims being made by those in the lead, that this remnant was what remained of Scottish royalty and nobility; traveling back to a country where ancestors had once lived as kings, the ideals beckoned to them.

Illya entered the room in the guise of a Stewart, first family of Scotland and with its altered spelling, Stuart, of Great Britain as well, until the rise of the House of Hanover. He looked the part, and when he made his entrance more than a few people were struck by how well he wore his colors.

Napoleon was there, as was April Dancer and Mark Slate. This entourage was intended to cement the appearance of stature and influence, something Illya would need if he were to persuade this assembly to give up their plans for a revolution.

As if entitled to the role, Illya strode to the stage like a man on a mission, and indeed he was. Climbing the steps with purpose, he stopped at the top and turned to the face the crowd. No one stopped him and there were no objections coming from the crowd. His fellow agents each took a step and stood facing the audience, waiting for Illya to speak.

He spoke to them first in Gaelic, although few of them would understand it; the purpose was to impress, and it did just that. Illya looked out over the sea of faces and addressed them then in accented English, his demeanor and speech pulling at whatever was left of sensible thinking. He urged them to give up their plans, outlined the futility of such a scheme and how it would shame the memory of their ancestors.

"This is not the way, my friends. Our brother, the great poet Robert Burns, immortalized a warring nation's troops, but that is not who we are. Let us now remember them and honor them, but recognize that we are not them.'' Illya began to recite Burns' _Scots Wha Hae_ …

 _Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,_

 _Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,_

 _Welcome to your gory bed,—_

 _Or to victorie.—_

 _Now 's the day, and now's the hour;_

 _See the front o' battle lour;_

 _See approach proud Edward's power,_

 _Chains and Slaverie.—_

 _Wha will be a traitor-knave?_

 _Wha can fill a cowards' grave?_

 _Wha sae base as be a Slave?_

 _—_ _Let him turn and flie.—_

 _Wha for Scotland's king and law,_

 _Freedom's sword will strongly draw,_

 _Free-Man stand, or Free-Man fa',_

 _Let him follow me.—_

 _By Oppression's woes and pains!_

 _By your Sons in servile chains!_

 _We will drain our dearest veins,_

 _But they shall be free!_

 _Lay the proud Usurpers low!_

 _Tyrants fall in every foe!_

 _Liberty 's in every blow!_

 _Let us Do—or Die!_

The entire room erupted into applause, cheering and shouting their agreement. Most of them were relieved to abandon the wild ideas of reclaiming a land that most of them had never even visited. How had this madness come to be?

Illya nodded, indicated to his entourage that they should now depart and did so, shaking hands and embracing many who wanted only to acknowledge this wise man and the words he had spoken.

When the four agents were back at Headquarters their mood was solemn, perhaps from the recitation of Burns' poem, or the sight of so many people who had been manipulated into possibly participating in an insurrection.

"You did a marvelous job Illya. I believe Burns would approve." Mark was impressed by the Russian, as were the other two. It had been a remarkable performance.

Illya acknowledged the comment with a small smile. None of the others knew what it was like to live in a country so recently affected by revolution. It had not been difficult for him to infuse his speech with genuine sentiment.

People were gullible; gullible and romantic when neither could accomplish anything worthwhile. Kuryakin would change clothes, but saving the world sometimes depended on how one was dressed, and in this instance it had required a kilt.

 _Bozhe moy._


End file.
